


The Five Heads of the Dragon

by LustOnMyFingers



Series: A Love Undying [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (You can take it I promise), (fiiiiinally!), And lastly..., Anniversary, Crack, Doppelganger, Edging, F/M, Female-on-male rimming, Fermented Crab, Group Sex, House of the Undying, Magic, Monogamous Harem, Musical cocks! (think musical chairs lmao), Oh and clearly we're ignoring the dumpster fire that is season eight, Or is it masturbation?, Oral Sex, Orgy, Reverse Gangbang, Shade of the Evening, Sixsome, Some lesbian shit, Song inspo: Lunascape - Lane Navachi, The ass-eating that wasn't promised, Very light foot stuff, Well it is now!, You decide!, duplication, is that a thing?, no?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22751107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: As the tenth anniversary of their wedding fast approaches, Queen Daenerys schemes to spice up her marriage with a gift for her husband, King Jon Snow. Upon refusing to share his bed with anyone other than his wife, Jon instead joins her on a journey across the east to Qarth, where the queen intends to harness the power of the Undying Ones to fulfill their wildest fantasies (part one of four).
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: A Love Undying [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635799
Comments: 58
Kudos: 150





	The Five Heads of the Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aliciutza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza/gifts), [CallMeDeWitt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeDeWitt/gifts), [Open_Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Open_Sky/gifts), [jalen_mara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jalen_mara/gifts).



> What started as a casual joke has become a _(n irrelevant)_ crack fic. Dedicated to my fellow _Daenerysii_ , who (like two fucking years ago) indulged my dumb idea while I figured out a canon-compliant way for five whole-ass Danys to fuck Jon at once. (Also, for anyone gifted this fic - please do not feel _*any*_ pressure to read this rubbish lol)
> 
> Written for [Jonerys Valentine's Week 2020](https://iceandfiresource.tumblr.com/post/190221038491/jonerys-valentines-week-2020-lace-and-leather), for the prompt: Forbidden Love
> 
> I'd suggest checking the tags before proceeding... >.>
> 
> (Yep, those are stupid too.)

* * *

Throwing his head back into his pillows, the king expelled the air from his lungs in one swift push. From head to toe, his body still shivered—particularly as his wife peeled her lips from him somewhere below the sheets. He gathered the fabric in his fists, lifting it to peer down at her, wiping her mouth clean with the back of her hand.

Jon grinned as Daenerys made her way up his body, hands and knees on either side of him as she crawled to plant a salty kiss square on his lips.

He couldn't take his eyes off of her as she collapsed just beside him, admiring her red and puffy mouth. Once her breathing had steadied, she met his eyes and smiled.

" _Good morning_ , Your Grace."

Jon groaned. "Stop with that, I beg you. Or must I endure another ten years of torment?"

"I'll stop if you wish," she relented. "Though most men would sooner give their left hand..."

"You know what I meant," he nudged her. "Enough already with this _'Your Grace'_ business. I'll have none of that in our bed."

"But it suits you," Dany insisted, flipping onto her stomach to purr in his ear. " _Especially_ in bed."

Jon grinned. " _Now_ ," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her closer. "Far be it from me to dissuade you from waking me in such a fashion."

Though she laughed, her face had turned serious.

Jon frowned. "What is it, Dany?"

"I've been thinking..."

"About?"

"A gift for you."

Jon gave a low chuckle. "If only there were something left you haven't already given me."

Daenerys didn't laugh. "The tenth anniversary of our wedding is soon upon us," she explained. "I thought you might like something to... perhaps enliven our lovemaking?"

His eyes went wide with sudden panic. "Do I not satisfy you?"

"Quite the contrary, my king. You satisfy me so well that I only wish to return the favor."

Jon couldn't believe her words, straight from the mouth of the woman whose lips still shone with his seed. "You do, love. _You do._ If you don't believe me, you can ask the poor Crownsguard stationed outside our door, subject to my cries as much as yours."

Though he hoped to drag a laugh from her, she remained steadfast in her determination. "I mean it, Jon. Imagine if I had... help. For a night or two?"

"Help?" He blinked. "You mean a whore?"

"A courtesan," she corrected.

"What's the difference?"

" _Many things._ "

"Is that so?" he asked. "And where would we find one of those?"

"Braavos."

"Too close to home," he concluded, lifting a hand to wave away the idea. "While I admit that the sensations of two women at once is tempting... there isn't an ounce of it that would be worth your embarrassment."

After all, as Jon was once thought to be a bastard, the shame of such a transgression had followed him all his life. Worse yet, he risked accidentally conceiving a child. The thought of fathering his own bastard made him feel ill. No amount of sexual pleasure was worth a rebellion, not when the realm had finally found peace.

Daenerys twirled her mother's lusterless ring around her finger to fidget. "But men want what they've never had," she argued.

Jon sighed. "There was a point in my life I vowed to swear off women altogether," he reminded her. "Alone, you are more than I ever could have hoped to have."

"Perhaps you're right," she sighed.

The king shifted onto his side so he could look straight into his wife's eyes. "Besides," he grinned, "There isn't another woman alive who could please me so well as you do."

Though Dany nodded, he could already identify fresh mischief in her eyes. Perhaps she had conceded in this courtesan matter, but Jon knew her better than to assume she'd given up the fight altogether. Only time would tell for sure.

. . .

_A courtesan would have been so much easier_ , Jon thought. For, after over a month at sea, he found himself regretting the decision to join his wife for a royal progress across Essos.

From King's Landing, they had traveled first to Pentos, where he and his children toured the city alongside his wife as she recalled the hardships of her childhood, fleeing from one free city to the next. She had even taken care to introduce them to the less fortunate in an effort to better hone their compassion. Jon had enjoyed that stop, impressed when the little princes and princesses took to the orphans, accepting them not just as equals, but as friends.

For all the humility the children had gained from Pentos, their next stop, Volantis, threatened to strip it from them entirely, for the many followers of R'hllor had viewed Daenerys as the god's living vessel upon the earth. And though Jon had never confirmed the whispers that he'd risen from the dead, rumors of Melisandre's deed had still managed to travel far across the Summer Sea.

Sullying his experience further, the air in Volantis smelled worse than even King's Landing. Yet, worst of all was the heat. It had taken him a decade to adjust to the swelter of the capital alone, but in comparison with the free city, it might as well have been cold as the Lands of Always Winter.

It was in Volantis that, painfully, the pair had parted ways with their children—at least for a couple of weeks. The king had put up a great fight against separating from his family, but the queen had trusted her truest friend to keep them safe. Daenerys had suggested they join Missandei and Grey Worm on a day trip home to Naath. It was the threat of butterfly fever that Jon most feared, but she had assured them that so long as they kept the trip to a mere few hours ashore, they would be fine. And until their parents joined them again, they would remain in Volantis, under the supervision of his wife's oldest friends.

With Dany's head buried in books all the way to New Ghis, the trip was lonesome as it was treacherous, but a necessary stop on the way to their intended target—Qarth. The city Daenerys had hand-picked to visit in celebration of their ten wedded years. The most impressive part of the route was, undoubtedly, the ruins of Old Valyria. Painted over blood-red skies was the wreckage of the fallen empire. A chilling reminder of how close they'd come to defeat, themselves. The sight of the crumbling ruins took him back to a time before he'd sworn his oath at Castle Black—staring down the kingsroad filled with doubt and longing as he imagined all the cities of the seven kingdoms he'd never see. And yet, had he not vowed to stay trapped at the Wall, he might have never seen them at all.

By the time they had reached Qarth another nine days later, the king was delighted just to be off of the sea and back on sturdy land. After their seasickness had passed, Jon toured the impressive city with his queen on his arm. She recounted the tale of how she had traversed the desolate plains of the red waste, arriving at the gates of Qarth not a moment too soon.

As the pair wandered together through the streets the following day, Jon began to understand her insistence in visiting. The city was breathtaking. Despite the bone-dry desert just beyond its triple walls, each square was dotted with an elaborate fountain, colorful towers rising from the pristine cobblestone alleys, almost as tall as the great arcade—from whose walls the imposing statues of great heroes loomed.

It wasn't until they had stopped to dine that Jon had noticed it—women in customary Qartheen gowns bearing a single breast. His fluster was of great amusement to his wife, who had, _thankfully_ , remained modestly covered. And though Daenerys had assured him there was no harm in looking, somehow, it felt wrong all the same.

Back at the inn, Daenerys had a bath drawn. Though she had preferred scalding water, herself, whenever she shared a tub with her husband, she would thankfully settle on a lesser degree of heat. Even then, he could feel sweat prickling up through his skin as she helped scrub his body so thoroughly it put color in his cheeks—a color that perfectly matched his wife's red silk gown.

Just when Jon had hoped to settle in for the night, Daenerys insisted he share a drink with her over a small plate of pickings, setting the dish down in front of him before filling two goblets.

"Fermented crab?" Jon groaned in complaint. "For two meals in a row?"

"Well, you know what they say..."

He scoffed. "'They' _who_?"

Sweeping a tumble of loose waves over her shoulder, Dany shrugged.

"Davos, you mean," he glared. "Anyway, it's nonsense."

"We'll see about that," she chuckled, pushing a goblet toward him before grabbing her own. "A toast to my king."

He pinched the stem of the chalice, noticing a curious blue liquid as it sloshed around the rim.

"What in seven hells is this?"

His wife raised her glass in the air, encouraging Jon to do the same. Afterward, he brought the goblet to his lips, immediately put off by the strange smell. But when his wife swigged a mouthful without so much as flinching, he tried again. The first sip tasted something foul—like tainted meat. The king recoiled, grimacing as the liquid slid thickly down his throat. Like a sprouting seed, the sensation seemed to take root all throughout his body. The taste on his tongue had turned almost sweet, like spice and cream... and _metal_ ? Iron, perhaps. And then something else. The king flushed when he finally recognized it as his favorite flavor of all— _Dany_.

"Are you ready for your gift, my king?"

"My gift?" He blinked. Gesturing generally at their lodgings, he asked, "Is this not it?"

Wearing an impish grin, Daenerys merely shook her head, extending her hand to take his. Together, they took to the streets once more—passing straight through the bustle of the city's famed night markets without a second glance.

Be it the suggestive taste of that strange blue concoction, the way his wife's hips swayed in front of him as she led him by the hand, or perhaps even the effects of the fermented crab... but, the king suddenly found himself brimming with desire.

Yet they continued onward, through a thicket of black-barked trees with blue leaves, following a trail of crumbling stones until, before them, a tall and ancient tower loomed. After climbing the steps that led up to the unsettling ruin, Daenerys came to a halt, violet eyes alight with mischief.

She lifted his hand, turning it over to place something small and cold in the center of his palm.

"Take this gem," she said. "Look at it."

Though a sudden suspicion narrowed the king's eyes, he played along, staring down at a lump of simple tourmaline, the color reminiscent of Rhaegal's scales.

"Look into its depths," she instructed, turning the gemstone over so the dying sunlight might catch it.

Still seeing nothing, Jon smirked. "Are you drunk?"

Daenerys glared, though it was an honest question. Despite the 'Unburnt' moniker or the fact that she had hatched dragons from stone—the queen was quite grounded, not one to concern herself with the magical means of potions and crystals.

Sighing, Jon tried again to see whatever it was she had meant him to—squinting as if to peer inside the gem. Certain his mind was playing tricks on him, the stone seemed to come alive with light.

"So many facets," she whispered. "If you look closely enough, you might just see yourself in them..."

When he met her gaze again, she stepped to the side, where just behind her, a familiar figure lurked.

"Often more than once," it said.

Startled, Jon nearly lost his footing in fright. This stranger both looked and sounded _exactly_ like his wife. At least, apart from her blue dress and the braids she wore in her hair.

_Am I drunk?_ he mused, wondering just what was in that strange wine that might cause such a hallucination. But gods, she had looked so _real_. As real as his wife, who had since turned on her heel to follow after, well, _herself_...

Still stunned, he stood frozen, blinking as he watched her disappear around the curved tower and out of sight.

"Daenerys?"

The only noise he could hear was that of his own steps—soft at first, the worry soon quickening his pace until the sound of feet colliding with stone clapped against the tower's walls. Before he knew it, he had come upon the very steps they had ascended. Somehow, he had rounded the entire ruin without having seen her at all.

" _Daenerys_!"

Before true panic could set in, he heard her muffled voice from somewhere behind him, far away.

When he turned, he saw something he was sure hadn't been there before—an oval-shaped door carved to look like a wooden face, almost like a weirwood tree. The door swung open, a bright light spilling onto the steps as he climbed them and entered.

Once inside, the voices became clearer. Jon blinked in succession as his eyes adjusted to what appeared to be daylight.

"Dany?" he asked again, though there came no reply.

Before him, four men stood on a raised platform, facing away. The tall one strode forward, chains clinking with every step.

"You're the mother of Dragons?" the man asked. "I swear I fucked you once in a pleasure house in Lys."

"Mind your tongue," another voice interrupted. Though it had been years since he had heard the old knight's voice, he recognized it all the same—Ser Jorah.

"Why?" the man asked. "I didn't mind _hers_."

When he finally stepped aside, Jon's heart skipped a beat. Unmistakable silver tendrils swept over sunkissed skin, dancing in the warm desert breeze.

The man plopped into the seat beside Daenerys, effectively shattering the king's brief reverie the instant he opened his mouth to speak.

"She licked my ass like she was born to do it."

As if his words weren't vile enough, the wretch wagged his tongue about like a rabid animal. Though Jon had clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked, the queen remained impervious.

"You, slave girl. Bring wine."

Even the dismissive way in which he spoke to Missandei boiled Jon's blood.

"We have no slaves here," Dany said.

"You'll all be slaves after the battle unless I save you," he challenged. "Take your clothes off and come and sit on Mero's lap, and I may give you my Second Sons."

The queen only smiled. "Give me your Second Sons and I may not have you gelded."

Mero merely laughed at the threat. _Might as well_ , Jon thought. For if he knew his wife at all, that laugh was like to be Mero's last.

The king focused on Daenerys as they carried on with negotiations, ignoring their speech until it blended together indistinctly. Instead, he simply admired the young conqueror that would become his wife. Her poise was unrivaled even then, in what he inferred to be the early stages of the siege of Yunkai.

"A fortnight ago, I had no army. A year ago, I had no dragons," she stated, turning again to face Mero. "You have two days to decide."

"Show me your cunt. I want to see if it's worth fighting for."

Before Jon could even get worked up over the comment, Grey Worm spoke up. And while he, himself didn't speak Valyrian, Jon found he had understood every last word.

"My Queen, shall I slice out his tongue for you?"

Unsurprisingly, Daenerys kept her cool. "These men are our guests," she said, mitigating the tension in her mother tongue before turning again to face Mero. "You seem to be enjoying my wine. Perhaps you'd like a flagon to help you ponder."

"Only a flagon?" the sellsword asked, gesturing toward his men. "And what are my brothers in arms to drink?"

"A barrel, then."

"Good. In the Second Sons, we share everything. After the battle, maybe we'll all share you."

Calm and collected, Daenerys simply held a blank stare, refusing to waste another ounce of energy on the foul-mouthed man.

Suddenly, her image warped and shifted, daylight turning to firelight as it illuminated her face—skin glowing a golden orange, her wavy hair falling limply over her shoulders without their usual crests. Though they'd outfitted her in little more than a brown sack, her unrivaled beauty hadn't dulled a lick. No longer was Daenerys shielded under a tent in the Yunkish desert, instead, she was surrounded by a dozen or so Dothraki warriors donning war paint and long dark braids.

"I like her."

"She's paler than milk."

Against all reason, Jon could understand their language.

"I'd like to know what a khaleesi tastes like."

"Good," another one said. "You can suck my dick."

Though the men broke into laughter, the exchange was enough to raise the king's hackles.

They began to discuss what to do with her, whether to leave her with the other widows or trade her to the Yunkish Masters in exchange for horses.

And for all their bluster, the queen was able to command their attention with a simple question.

"Don't you want to know what I think?"

"You'd rather be sold to slavery?" the khal asked. "Or maybe you'd like to show Rhalko here what you taste like?"

"No. I don't want either of those things."

"We don't care what you want," he said. "This is the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen. You have no voice here."

"I know where I am. I have been here before."

Daenerys went on to recount her experience with the Dothraki—of how, when she first stood amongst the Dosh Khaleen, she was promised before the Mother of Mountains that her enemies would be destroyed once the khalasar crossed the black salt sea. Naturally, they had mocked her journey. And in turn, she mocked them right back.

"You are small men. None of you are fit to lead the Dothraki," she declared. "But I am. So I will."

The men shook with a round of low laughter.

"All right, no Dosh Khaleen for you. Instead, we'll take turns fucking you. And then we'll let our bloodriders fuck you," he threatened, rising to his feet, "And If there's anything left of you, we'll give our horses a turn."

Flames danced red in her irises, her expression smug and satisfied.

"You crazy cunt," he shouted. "Did you really think we would serve you?"

Daenerys reached out to grasp the rim of the nearest brazier, her grip firm and steady as she spoke, "You're not going to serve."

One by one, a dozen apprehensive gazes flitted to her unscathed hand.

"You're going to die."

Jon grinned, watching with vengeful delight as his wife pushed the brazier forward, metal clunking as it hit the ground—a billow of white-hot fire racing toward the men. Reflexively, Jon threw his hands up as the flames engulfed the scene and burned it away.

The screams soon faded, the crackle of fire like rain striking stone. Somewhere above him, thunder rolled across the sky. Behind his eyes, all had gone dark. And from that blackness, came his wife's soft voice.

"And you believe this prophecy refers to me?"

Like starlight glowing against a twilight sky, rings of candles flickered to life at the edges of the room, providing little warmth against the subdued blues and greys.

At the center of the room stood Daenerys Stormborn. The severity of her stare had been stripped from her face—like the sun's kiss from her skin on the stormy isle. Instead, her eyes were wide and curious, almost grey in the dim light.

Dragonstone's throne room had even managed to dull the red woman's vibrancy as she answered the queen. "Prophecies are... dangerous things," said Melisandre. "I believe you have a role to play. As does another. The King in the North. Jon Snow."

The queen's allies were dotted around the room. Jon took unseen steps around the apparitions to gauge their reactions. Thus far, Tyrion was the only one he had met. It was no surprise, then, when the lord's expression shifted to one of shock.

"Jon Snow?" he asked. "Ned Stark's bastard?"

Daenerys whirled around. "You know him?"

"I traveled with him to the Wall when he joined the Night's Watch."

Looking skeptical, Lord Varys spoke up. "And why do you think the Lord of Light singled out this Jon Snow?"

Putting Ser Davos to shame, Melisandre took care to recite Jon's achievements one after the other, noticing clear intrigue in the queen's eyes.

"He sounds like quite a man."

Though she had awarded him with countless compliments throughout the years, something about hearing the very first made the king's chest swell with pride.

"Summon Jon Snow," said the red woman. "Let him stand before you and tell you the things he's seen with his own eyes."

Cautiously, Tyrion stepped forward. "I can't speak to prophecies or visions in flames," he said. "But I liked Jon Snow, and I trusted him. And I am an excellent judge of character."

Daenerys smirked.

"If he does rule the North, he'd make a valuable ally," he continued. "Jon Snow has even more reason to hate Cersei than you do."

Daenerys averted her gaze, Jon watched with bated breath—for this was the very moment in which his fate had been strung up, left to hang in the balance as she considered her Hand's words.

"Very well," she finally agreed. "Send a raven North. Tell Jon Snow that his queen invites him to come to Dragonstone," she said. "And _bend the knee_."

_Would that it were so easy_ , he thought, a grin spreading over his face.

A sudden crack of thunder carried the anguished cry of a babe. And when Jon turned to identify which direction it came from, he found himself transported to an entirely different room. One much warmer. Cozy. _Safe_.

His own bedchamber.

Upon the great wooden bed sat his wife, her hair braided into a rope the color of pale moonlight. Her violet eyes glistened as she nursed a newborn babe. Beside her stood an older man—his long hair pulled half back and streaked with grey, bearing a striking resemblance with Jon's late uncles Benjen and Ned. When he bent to sit next to the queen, Jon realized that the man was himself.

"Have you settled on a name?" she asked.

The king leaned against his wife, revealing a fuller face creased with new lines around his eyes. He lifted a hand to gently brush the child's cheek.

"His name is-" he spoke, his lips even curving around the consonant, but it was lost on the wind that swept straight through the vision, the only sound a lingering hiss.

Their ghostly images blew away, leaving Jon with the distinct feeling that though he hadn't recognized the vision, he'd somehow felt it before. Perhaps as he drifted in and out of dreams and memories all throughout his coma. In the same way that she had come into focus when he first opened his eyes aboard her ship, so did her image as it sharpened before him now.

_Dany_.

This time it was no memory, he knew—for she had on the same red silk dress, her hair a spill of silver waves. She had even acknowledged him with an enigmatic smile.

"Dany," he sighed in relief, rushing over to cup her face in his hands, pressing kiss after kiss upon her mouth until she chuckled against his lips.

"My king," she slipped the greeting between kisses. "Did you enjoy your trip?"

He took another look around the room, lifting his brows in surprise. "How have we made it home?"

"We're still in Qarth," she assured him, her palms finding his chest. "You haven't actually gone far."

"But how-?"

Sweeping upward, a hand brushed over his chin, a soft finger pushing against his lips to quiet him.

"We don't have long," she warned. "Save your questions and kiss me."

Never one to disobey a queen's command, Jon placed a palm on the small of her back to pull her closer, his mouth on hers in an instant. The indescribable aftertaste of blue wine passed between their lips as they laved at each other's tongues until he was short of breath.

Daenerys used the lull to push him down onto the bed, crawling up his body to resume just where they'd left off. The smooth glide of her tongue against his lips had coaxed his eyes closed, the sensation of her hands roaming over his body felt almost like four instead of two.

Again, Jon broke away from her lips just to breathe, more eager for her kiss than fresh air. She had tilted his head to the right before going back in for another taste. This time, it felt different—her usual expertise almost unpolished.

Not that he minded one bit.

When he lifted his hands to cradle her head, he felt two small plaits twisting her hair back, though he could have sworn she'd worn it down in a tumble of soft silver waves. His skin brushed against rough linen instead of what _should've_ been a silk dress. Confused, Jon opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of sea-blue against golden skin.

He blinked in disbelief, for his wife still straddled him, and the girl she had seemingly summoned from the small gemstone lie beside him, chasing after his mouth. But when she tried to kiss him again, he shifted his head away from her in confusion.

"How-?"

"Keep your questions," Dany reminded, her nose bumping his ear in a soft whisper.

"And kiss me," the Conqueror urged, tilting his head toward her so she could again taste his lips.

Two mouths were suddenly upon him. Their touch seemed to divide again, six hands gliding over his robes, perhaps even eight...

The sudden scent of spiceflower wafted in from his left side, as well as another hand—which wrestled his mouth away from the Conqueror to claim it for herself. Jon opened his eyes again to see the Khaleesi from the vision of the Dosh Khaleen. All three mouths began to crowd him, clouding the air with hot, humid breath.

After a moment, Dany had retreated from him altogether, allowing yet another copy of herself to slither up his body— _the Stormborn_. Two perfectly curled tendrils swept over him as her lips joined in, luring his mouth to hers with kisses all along his jaw. When his hands traveled to her waist, he recognized the fabric immediately—reminding him of the many nights he had helped relieve her of similar stiff bindings as they sailed from Dragonstone to White Harbor so many years ago.

Somehow, a fifth pair of hands and legs indented the mattress, pushing her way through all four bodies to steal a kiss for herself, too. Jon opened his eyes to examine her face more closely. Unlike his Dany, this woman was older—though had she not been so close to his eyes, he might not have been able to tell at all. Small lines from what he had hoped were years full of joy had softly creased her eyes and forehead, her skin still supple and shining with a new mother's glow. _The Mhysa_ , from the vision of his future. Enticed, Jon pulled her in for another taste, almost immediately daunted by the prowess of her kiss.

Quickly, the king was overwhelmed by the five pairs of hands wandering all along his body, or perhaps by the fragrant blend of flowers and spices hanging in the air, settling in his lungs as he breathed them in.

All too soon, the five women retreated in unison, gathering at the foot of the bed so he could see them all at once.

Stunned, Jon could merely watch as his wives undressed, clothing falling away from their bodies like leaves from a dying branch. Together, the group of near-identical women smiled and laughed, their amusement evenly divided between the physical task of undressing one another and the pitiful way in which he gaped at them, drool surely hanging from his lips in anticipation.

While he didn't know their exact ages, he guessed that their years easily spanned two decades. As such, there were slight variations between their bodies, Jon noticed—some softer, some more toned, each equally enticing as the next. His current wife was the easiest to tell apart from the others— _Dany_. Though her remaining copies could be distinguished by the way they styled their hair alone.

Once the women were naked as their nameday, they moved on Jon like a pack of wolves on a prey animal, or—as was more fitting to describe Dany—a clan of dragons. He had no idea where exactly to look, feasting his eyes upon every last inch of bare skin he could.

One by one, his wives inched closer, letting him feel and grope their bodies. There was even variation in how they'd responded to exactly the same touch—one sighing while another might groan. If only he had had enough hands to cup all ten breasts at once, enough fingers to pinch ten round cheeks of each bottom, enough mouths to simultaneously suck the dew from between all ten thighs...

With five pairs of claws, the women dragged the decorative chains from his neck and shoulders, plucking open every last fastening. His wives peeled the clothing away from his body like rind from a fruit, wasting no time before digging right into his tender flesh.

Ten palms slid all along his torso, warm against his skin. Fifty fingers fanned out like scouts to map his body's terrain—a few even going off course to explore a yet-uncharted crevasse, leaving Jon no choice but to shudder and groan. All over they pinched and squeezed him, pinning his arms if he dared to squirm, bending to suck his tongue each time he cried out.

They left behind marks all along his body, his wives claiming their territory by way of tooth and nail—scoring his scarred chest until it was a patchwork of uneven red lines that both tingled and stung, sharp teeth sinking straight into whatever muscle was nearest to their mouths.

Just as the pleasure teetered on the edge of pain, the women unfurled their tongues to lick his wounds. One latched onto his nipple, sweeping soft circles around it, tugging it between her teeth. Another had sucked his fingers into her mouth—extremities twitching as her tongue danced all around them. Low on his belly, a third lapped at his navel before kissing her way up to taste his seven scars. Jon didn't know whether to laugh or cry when another lifted his arm, pinning it above him to lave the sensitive skin of his armpit. And when he yelped and gave an involuntary kick in rebellion, another caught him by the ankle with both hands, dipping a tongue between each toe.

The bevy of sensations compromised his senses, vision blurring and ears chiming like bells—drowning out whatever pathetic noises surely spilled from his lips. By now, it was utterly impossible to distinguish between the women as they indiscriminately ravaged his body, inundating him with nearly every form of tactile pleasure he could imagine.

And just when he feared slipping into madness, a voice cut through the ringing in his ears.

"Ūbnon."

Jon threw his head back as the women withdrew, the weight of all five bodies settling all around the mattress as he sighed in relief. Finally, he relaxed his muscles, which shook harder now than they had after even his toughest battles.

When he opened his eyes, the bleary image of several wives came into focus. They sprawled out, gloriously naked upon the bed, mingling amongst themselves as he recovered. His achingly-hard cock gave an impatient jerk as his eyes fell on a pair of them—one fondling the other's breasts.

_Gods_.

One had soft hair twisted back, the other an elaborate maze of tight plaits—Khaleesi and the Stormborn. Feeling the weight of his leering, the pair descended upon him, pulling his arms up and over his head before the Stormborn planted a hot mouth on his, Khaleesi leaning in to lap and bite his neck.

Since his head was distracted, he jerked when two pairs of hands found his ankle, stroking softly upward and over his calf. Two women had wedged themselves between his legs, a mouth latched on either thigh as they pushed them apart.

When he felt the fifth woman crawling around above his head, Jon opened his eyes to spy an upside-down Dany as she took hold of his wrists, pinning his hands to the mattress. Khaleesi licked her way up to his ear, swirling a soft tongue on the underside of his lobe, even dipping inside the canal. Just as his eyes began to cross, he felt a pair of hands cupping his balls, lifting them so the other could better lick between his legs.

Firm hands held his arms in place as he writhed, a torrid heat flaring in his cheeks as he opened his legs wider in accommodation—feeling the bump of a nose against his perineum as a tongue traveled downward, sliding softly over his anus. Jon gasped, straight into the mouth of the Stormborn, who steadily kissed him through the sweet torment. His body quaked and shivered as an enthusiastic mouth explored him, indiscriminately laving all the spots he never even knew he needed touched.

Another pair of warm lips enclosed around one testicle after the other, the suction tugging at the loose skin. His sob was muffled by the mouth latched to his—though the Stormborn had since grown impatient with his subpar efforts. She had abandoned his distracted kisses to crawl further down the mattress and busy her mouth on his cock, instead. Sweeping a tongue up and down his length, she took several soft and teasing tastes.

Jon uncrossed his eyes, lifting his head enough to gape at his groin where three blurry heads bobbed as they worked, serenading him with a ballad of wet sounds—licking and slurping, sucking and popping. With a final drag of her teeth over his earlobe, Khaleesi pulled away from him. Jon opened his eyes, blinking in rapid succession as they finally uncrossed. The girl hadn't gone far, though—climbing up onto the bed and lifting a thigh to grant him a welcome peek at her glistening cunt before straddling his head.

Finally, Dany let go of his pinned wrists, allowing him the freedom to clutch the Khaleesi's hips to drag her closer to his waiting mouth. From behind him, a pair of hands reached out to assist them, spreading the girl's cheeks further apart. As best he could given the assault between his legs, Jon began to lick and suck as she gently rode his face. Soon, Dany had leaned forward to join him, a soft tongue sliding with his, all along the girl's lower lips. Their mutual efforts were soon rewarded with a soft sobbing from above.

His weakened muscles began to quake again, racing faster toward the only inevitable conclusion. When he threw his head back as his pleasure climbed higher, Dany took notice. Pulling her face out from underneath Khaleesi's bottom, she hollered.

"Ūbnon!"

The three women broke away from his groin one by one, leaving him drenched in their saliva and twitching.

All five women coalesced again upon the bed, arms and legs enmeshed. Jon melted into the sheets, waiting for the sweat to cool his blazing body. He placed a palm over his largest scar as if to coax his heart down from its elevated beating.

His wives began exchanging whispers he couldn't hear behind cupped ears. After trading grins with Dany, the Conqueror crawled forward on her hands and knees—her face shining with wetness from nose to chin, hinting at just who had been so far down between his legs.

Her eyes bore into his as she took his cock in her hand. Using the tip, she gathered the wetness from her lower lips before submerging him entirely. She rolled back her shoulders, gripping his knees with her hands. Her hips began to sway in slow circles as she rocked back and forth. Though he could feel the pierce of several stares, it was the Conqueror who had captured his gaze, staring into him as if his very soul had been laid bare before her. And though each roll of her hips was divine, it was her eyes that brought him right to the edge of his undoing—dismounting him just before he unraveled.

The Conqueror gestured toward his flushed erection as if to offer the next ride. Khaleesi came forward on her palms, an eager volunteer. Like a serpent, she slithered across his torso, bare breasts and belly brushing softly against his skin. Once their bodies had aligned, she slipped a hand between them to guide him inside of her. She rode him slow and steady, leaning in to confirm _exactly_ what a Khaleesi tasted like as she licked her juices right from his lips. And just as his climax fast approached, he slipped out of her and she slithered away to whence she came.

Already, another pair of hands had claimed him for her own, the Stormborn swiftly mounting him, clenching his body with well-muscled thighs. After placing her palms flat against his chest, fingers fanned out over his scars, she lifted herself up onto her ankles and invited him inside. At first, she bounced with impressive precision, teasing him by riding only the tip. With each thrust, she took in another inch. Until finally, her bottom came crashing down upon his body again and again. And just as he began to peak, her movements reversed—taking less of him inside of her on each pass until his cock had slipped out, thudding heavy against his stomach as she leapt off of him.

As Jon began to wonder just how much more he could take, he locked eyes with his wife of twenty years—the Mhysa. Lidded violet eyes darted over every last inch of his body, eyeing him like he was a rare delicacy. Turning her back to him, her long silver braid swept across his belly as she climbed atop him. The adept stroke of her palm enough to make him shudder. She sank down on him, flexing her muscles inside so hard he could see them working from the outside as he manually spread her cheeks apart to get a better look. He could even see his skin drag over the raised veins of his cock as she clenched harder with every thrust.

The king let out a sputtering breath as he felt a different tightness between his legs—his release finally upon him.

In what might have been the worst possible timing, the woman riding him began to dissolve before his eyes, her grip on his cock loosening. Desperate, Jon lurched forward, trying in vain to grasp her hips and keep her there, but his arms went straight through her image like smoke.

In an instant, Dany had fallen before him in a panic, quick to fish his cock into her mouth. Lips and palms slid up and down his length as she bobbed her head, undoubtedly tasting all four versions of herself at once as she worked. The king laced his fingers through her hair, gently guiding her head as he prodded her throat, grunting as her hands twisted and tugged. The pressure inside him finally flared, his body jerking with each gush, his wife sniffling as she sucked it down her throat until she'd consumed every last drop.

Jon slumped forward, chest heaving and skin slick with sweat. When he moved his legs, his thighs chafed on what should've been a bed—but in actuality, was just a cold stone slab. No longer were they in their bedchamber, but in a circular room inside the ancient tower—door after door lining the circumference of its stone walls.

Troubled by the sight of his queen on her knees in ancient dust and dirt, Jon offered both hands to help her up, though his arms shook from fatigue.

Together, the couple bent to retrieve their clothing, wordlessly pulling their arms through their respective straps and sleeves. The queen refastened the bindings of Jon's robes, even untying his sweat-slicked hair to smooth and neaten it. In turn, the king fussed over his wife, brushing her hair into place with his fingers and making sure her dress was on right.

When they were decent, Jon finally dared to ask.

"What in _seven hells_ was that?"

. . .

Beside him, his wife softly snored.

Jon couldn't sleep. All night he had tried, and all night he had tossed and turned. His mind wandered instead, running through the peculiar experience, unsure what was stranger—walking through his wife's memories to glimpse past versions of her, or actually fucking them.

As the couple had walked back to the inn that night, they had exchanged few words—Jon's mind quite incapable of both asking too many questions or processing information at all. Though when he asked her how exactly she'd done it, she assured him they'd discuss it the following day, for she had come out of the experience nearly as exhausted as he.

When his wife stirred and rolled over, Jon felt a hopeful twitch down below. Unsure whether it was his inability to stop thinking about the encounter or that he'd downed almost two entire plates of fermented crab, his erection lingered.

Jon knew if he stayed in bed any longer, he'd be too tempted to wake her—either for answers or to help with the persistent ache in his groin.

Throwing his legs over the edge of the bed, the king lifted himself onto his feet, shambling over to the table, emptying a waterskin into one of the goblets before taking a swig.

It tasted like every flavor he'd known and several he didn't.

It tasted like everything and nothing at all.

The king grimaced. He didn't need to see it to know that it was blue—the gooey liquid sticking to his throat as he tried to swallow and rid the queer taste from his mouth.

He was awake now, for the potion had settled in his chest, already weaving its way all throughout his body.

_It'd be a shame to let it go to waste_.

Jon grabbed his robe from the back of the chair over which it was draped, slipping his arms through the sleeves as he pulled it on. He walked to the bed to press a light kiss to the queen's head, promising to be back well before she wakes.

Checking his pockets, the king retrieved the small green gemstone. Smiling to himself, he quietly pushed open their door and locked it behind him as he set out again into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Ūbnon means 'wait' or 'hiatus' in Valyrian.
> 
> For anyone curious: Jon is 33 and Dany 32. Conqueror is 18. Khaleesi is 21. Stormborn is 22. Mhysa is roughly 40.
> 
> Lastly, I tried my fucking _hardest_ to make this as clear and non-confusing as possible. If I failed, I apologize. But I needed to get this shit out of my head, already, and onto 'paper'. As always, thanks for stopping by and reading! ♥


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